


Vulnerable

by kayisdreaming



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Light Smut, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, So much angst, dear god why is there so much angst, somewhat non-con but it's a damn fuzzy line here, the return of sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-10
Updated: 2013-09-10
Packaged: 2017-12-26 04:54:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/961790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayisdreaming/pseuds/kayisdreaming
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes, the love of John's life and the very same person who broke his heart with his death, has returned. Sherlock definitely knows what he wants, after being gone for so long. John's not so sure.<br/>Oneshot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vulnerable

**Author's Note:**

> Straightening out implied things in the story: In this one, Sherlock and John have had a sexual relationship before the Fall. John had taken up the prerogative of teaching Sherlock all that he knows of it. Somewhat non-con, but it's a bit of a hazy line. There is no explicit "no" here, but it could definitely be a bit. . . iffy. If you are uneasy at the thought, even the slightest trace of it, please go to a different story.  
> If there's anything else I'm missing, something I should put in the tags, anything, please let me know.  
> This was a result from a prompt on Tumblr and people were making me want to write angst. This was written with a teen!John in mind, but I've altered it to make it applicable to either. Hope that makes sense!

Sherlock was back. Actually back from the dead. John had seen it, had accepted his death. Had visited and mourned at the grave so many times he had lost count. Blamed himself for so much gone wrong. Replayed so many situations in his head. Saw that one over and over. Always his fault. For not seeing it before, for not doing anything. The wound still felt fresh, like it had just happened yesterday. But Sherlock was back. Not dead. A game, a ploy, a way to win the game when it should have been impossible.

That was Sherlock’s excuse. His reasoning for what he had done. An explanation of how, and why. Of why it was necessary. John, of course, was the last to know. Too dangerous. But, apparently, patience had never been a strong suit of Sherlock’s. He had come before he was supposed to, before everything had been dealt with. Come to surprise John in his empty room—looking like he always had. Like he had been there all along.

John had blacked out. It was too much, far beyond that which his brain could take. When he woke up, Sherlock was above him, propping him up so he was somewhat seated against Sherlock’s leg. He looked worried. He looked real. John extended a hand to Sherlock’s cheek, caressing it. It was real. Sherlock was here in front of him. He had achieved the impossible.

"It wasn’t real, John." Sherlock said, voice low as he leaned into John’s hand. He looked tired, thin. Worn by the time and clearly not taking care of himself. "It was never real."

That set something off in John’s mind. Without thinking, his hand turned into a fist. He decked Sherlock, even in the short distance sending him reeling. Sherlock’s leg flattened, and John slipped to the floor, knocking his head. By the end, both were rubbing their heads and faces, just staring at each other.

"You’re an ass." John had growled, sitting up and pulling Sherlock into an embrace. God, he missed the smell, the presence, the feeling.

 

Now they are lying in bed together, back and getting the presence that had been denied to them for too long. It's … different, having someone in his bed again. Hearing the breathing, feeling him shift in the bed. Actually being tempted to sleep without the utter fear of falling straight into nightmare. Sherlock’s presence had always been a soothing one, driving away nightmares and lulling him into something more peaceful and fulfilling.

John, however, can’t make himself face Sherlock. Not right now. He lies with his back to the other, biting his lip. His mind is swarming. Mixed with both good and bad clashing against each other and wanting to make themselves known.

Sherlock is back. He wasn’t dead. And he had come back to John. Wanted to be with John. Had broken those rules he had set himself, went against the danger to see John again. The very thoughts makes his heart swell.

But he had been left alone for years. Wasn’t trusted enough to even get the slightest hint that Sherlock was okay. Was left to believe the one person he had truly loved was dead. And Sherlock even let it happen. Had let John mourn and suffer, had put him through all of that. And then, when there was an opening, had come to John last. Last. And had the audacity to come here and think that everything was okay—that he did nothing wrong. It had John seething.

No. The anger is just at the surface. An initial response. There's something else there. Some other feeling. Something that he doesn’t want to accept. That he doesn’t want to embrace.

"I missed you." Sherlock mutters, shifting closer and pressing a kiss to John’s shoulder. His fingers wrap around John’s waist, hands shifting under his shirt and brushing the skin underneath with his thumbs. "Your presence is . . . stimulating."

John can’t respond. If he had been missed, he would have been given a hint, a clue. Sherlock would have come back sooner. It wouldn’t be like this.

He feels like he had been used and tossed aside. Brought back when he was needed again. When it wasn’t dangerous or inconvenient. He didn’t get a say in it—not even a slight one—and it makes him feel like he had been nothing. Like he was unimportant. He should have been mad. He should have been furious about it.

And yet part of him is still desperate for Sherlock. Pressing into Sherlock’s hands, making him shift his head to nuzzle Sherlock’s as kisses are pressed to his collarbone and throat. Desperate for his touch, for the familiarity. For everything to go back to the way it was. His mind screams that it won’t be. Not again. It makes him want to cry, to be so, so … so lost. To curl up into a ball and try to figure everything out. To be alone.

And, instead, there is Sherlock. With his mouth latching to John’s neck, marking property that had always been his. John shuts his eyes, trying to come to a conclusion—to a direction to go. Elated, sorrowful, upset, furious—something. But his mind won’t do it.

Finished with his mark, Sherlock shifts, removing his hands from under John’s shirt. He presses his hands into the mattress—one hand on either side of John—and props himself up. John looks up, curious, only to quickly find Sherlock’s mouth on his. Their lips only connect for a few seconds before Sherlock’s tongue grazes John’s lips. It is only another few seconds before Sherlock starts demanding entrance. He is hungry, forceful. John, mind still busy trying to figure everything out, knows not what to do. He parts his lips to comply.

Sherlock shifts, the closeness forcing John onto his back. Sherlock's tongue is working, stroking, mapping—trying to see if anything had changed in his long absence. It hasn’t, not really. Though … maybe John has. He clings to Sherlock’s clothes, wanting to use them as a guide to push him away, to pull him back to his spot on the bed and not so close to John. He’s not ready for this. But Sherlock’s too adamant, taking John’s move as a sign of his desperation and need to go further. He moans into John’s mouth.

There is only a short pause for breath, and John has found himself breathing heavily. He forgot that Sherlock’s lung capacity was greater than his own—and apparently Sherlock has forgotten that, too.

"I thought of you often." Sherlock breathed. Lips ghosting over John’s as he waits for a response. His voice is low and deep. "Nothing I could imagine came close to the real thing."

John opens his mouth to speak. To protest. To say that yes, he missed Sherlock, but he’s not ready for this. That he needs to get his mind straight. To ask Sherlock to stop. To just say no. But he is still out of breath, and it comes out in a soft and jumbled mess. Too much like a moan, and Sherlock takes it as his cue to start once more.

As their lips keep moving and John’s words are lost to him, Sherlock presses his body close, one hand moving to John’s back. Rocking his hips gently and letting John know just _how_ much he missed his partner. John instantly regrets not wearing trousers to bed, his body betraying his mind at the mere feeling. He lets out a soft moan into Sherlock’s mouth, hips moving only slightly to meet Sherlock's.

Sherlock smirks, taking that as another cue. Parting himself from John’s lips, he sits up a bit, slightly straddling the dirty-blonde. His eyes are full of adoration, eyelids half-lidded due to the mere thought of what lies ahead. His fingers make quick work of John’s and his own pants, tossing them across the room.

John only wants to cry. It’s too late to stop it. Too late to tell Sherlock this isn’t what he wants right not. That, though he has always wanted Sherlock, he isn’t sure what he wants. Isn’t sure of what he’s supposed to think, or feel, or do. It’s too late.

Sherlock reaches into the side desk. John doesn’t look; he knows what it is. What he had simply left there because he didn’t have the heart to remove it. He simply looks at Sherlock, hoping his eyes can speak what his mouth will not. But Sherlock must take it as something else—a sad longing, a plea to continue—John doesn’t know. Perhaps, perhaps Sherlock just doesn’t care. _His_ needs first.

John gasps in surprise as Sherlock prepares him. As he moves in the way John taught him was best. But John doesn’t want this. He isn’t ready for it. Instead of pleasurable—it’s simply miserable. And, when Sherlock removes his long fingers and penetrates John, so slowly and gently (which John is utterly grateful for, in the far corner of his mind), John groans at the pain. He clings to Sherlock, hoping the pressure he puts in his fingertips to Sherlock’s shoulders can distract him. It hardly does.

Sherlock pauses as he finally sheathes himself within John. His eyes are hopeful, eager, excited, and thrilled with the thought of pleasure and having John back in his arms. Then, a look of surprise and worry flashes in his eyes. One of his hands move to brush a stray tear from John’s cheek. He looks at it, eyebrows furrowed in frustration at the thing that dared to show itself. His eyes flicker to John's, the smile in them nearly gone at the potential realization. John sits there a bit stunned. He didn’t even realize that it had escaped. That he couldn’t hold it back.

As Sherlock watches him, John gives a weak smile, playing it off like it is only the fact that he is unaccustomned to it to blame. After all, it has been three years. He presses his mouth against Sherlock’s, rolling his hips slightly. It hurts, aches, but he has to do it. He can’t bring himself to stop Sherlock now. Not when they’ve come so far. Not with that expression on his face. John has always had a weakness for Sherlock and his desires. Now is no different, he finds. He’ll have to endure it. Just this once.

Even in the long time since they had last been together, he knows the cues. He knows what Sherlock is looking for, how to emulate them to near perfection. In short, he fakes everything—every sound, every motion, every smile and gasp and declaration of love. Because this is how it should be. This is what Sherlock expects—a warm welcome. Perhaps he is so eager that he doesn’t notice. Or perhaps he sees it and doesn’t care. That all of those emotions had collided, negated each other out. That John just feels empty.

When they are done, John doesn’t move. Acts like he’s too tired to try. Sherlock makes a weak attempt at cleaning the mess, but there’s not much point there. John turns onto his side, just so Sherlock can’t read his expression. Sherlock moves behind him, body pressed close to John’s. He sighs happily, the exertion inviting sleep.

John lies there for a long time. The emptiness has subsided, the pain bringing the thoughts back to his mind. Brings him back to how lost he was. Back to the conclusion that he was little more than an item—that Sherlock’s needs had always come before his own. And that, unless he could reconcile and figure all of this out, he would have to make sure that kept happening. Even if he had to fake every night, even if he had to maneuver his way around all of this.

He loves Sherlock--there is no doubt about that. But, with all of this, he can’t trust him. And, much to his dismay, he knows that nothing would go back to normal unless he can.

As Sherlock starts to enter the deeper REM cycles, where it was less likely he would wake, John finally lets himself cry.


End file.
